


First Time, Second Chance

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-30 01:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10149473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: A little follow up to John and Sherlock the night of the bathtub incident.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure this is just Mature, but there is sexual activity, and there is use of swear words and slang for body parts, so, y'know, tread lightly if you're a teen or a bit prudish.

          They have spent the night together.

          Not like _that_. Well, not exactly. The desire is there, but they are both a little hesitant, a little scared. John thinks it is one of the few times he has seen Sherlock Holmes openly admit he doesn’t know what to do.

          Maybe they should work up to it, go on dates, hold hands, take Rosie for walks and…well, anyway, they’ve jumped ahead of those bits now. …

          They stayed up late, talking, and when John began yawning and blinking heavily, Sherlock had reluctantly urged him to go to bed; John started up the stairs, but when he looked back he saw Sherlock standing next to his chair, looking lonely. Without thinking twice he held out his hand and smiled, “Come on.”

          And they had walked upstairs, hand in hand, bumping a bit awkwardly into one another in the narrow staircase. Sherlock had been dressed in his pyjamas and robe already, following his bath, but John had changed out of his wet clothes after Sherlock had pulled him into the bath, back into a comfortable jumper and a pair of cords. Feeling absurdly self-conscious, he pulled his jumper off over his head, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock stood next to the bed, his robe in his hands; looking as if he wasn’t sure he should leave the room, turn his back or get in bed.

          John had dropped his shirt on top of his jumper on the ladder backed chair that stood next to his dresser, and unbuckled his belt. A flush washed over him, and he felt a bit as if he was about to perform a striptease. Hands shaking slightly, he had unzipped his flies, and shucked off his trousers, leaving him dressed in just his briefs and socks. Trying to step out of his trousers he had tripped and caught himself on the dresser. Sherlock had taken a step forward, words dying on his lips even as John recovered. “Sorry, clumsy,” John muttered, embarrassed. He draped his trousers over the chair back, and pulled a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and a cotton t-shirt out of the dresser. Dressed once more, he walked to the opposite side of the bed.

          They climbed in simultaneously, from opposite sides of the bed, and as the covers settled over them John laughed shortly. He felt Sherlock look at him, and without thinking he rolled onto his side and faced him, reaching for his hand. “Just a bit odd, that’s all. We’ve never shared a bed aside from Baskerville…and you hardly slept then.”

          “And you didn’t—“ Sherlock stopped. “I shall endeavor to sleep tonight, but if I am restless I will go downstairs so I don’t disturb you.”

          “What were you going to say?” John whispered, wondering why he was whispering.

          “Why are you whispering?” Sherlock whispered.

          John grinned and saw the answering gleam of the other man’s smile. “Ha. Not sure, actually. I guess because this feels intimate.”

          “Too intimate?”

          “Quit trying to distract me. What were you going to say? What didn’t I?”

          A long silence, but John is used to those when it comes to Sherlock, and he uses his free hand to double his pillow over and make himself comfortable. Finally Sherlock sighs a bit, “You didn’t want me, then. It wasn’t an issue for you.”

          “Was it for you?” He feels sad, thinking of all the times he might have hurt his friend without knowing it.

          “It wasn’t an issue,” Sherlock hedges.

          “Did you want me? Then?” _That far back_ , he wonders in surprise. Surely not.

          “I found you attractive almost from the first. But I did not lie when I told you that first night that I don’t do relationships, and so I didn’t think more about it. Until—“ A pause, and John finds he is rubbing his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. It is soothing to him and he hopes that Sherlock finds it so. “After we chased the cab and ended up back here…in the hallway, you were looking at me, laughing, and I thought how much I wanted to kiss you.”

          John’s face is hot. That far back? _That_ far back! “I didn’t know,” he says stupidly, “I—I remember looking into your eyes and thinking what a bloody brilliant mad man you were, and that I hadn’t felt so exhilarated in months and months.” He falters, hems a bit, and upon Sherlock sighing and telling him to spit it out, blurts, “When did you, ah, fall in love with me?”

          Now it is Sherlock who whispers, and although his tone is firm, he sounds reluctant, “I don’t know when it started, I just know when it—when I realized that I loved you.”

          “Gonna make me beg for it?” John teased when he remained silent.

          “Your wedding.” The bottom drops out of John’s stomach as he thinks back to that day, and all the days since and the happiness, and madness and heartbreak of it all. For just a minute he can see Mary’s happy face so clearly, he feels that she is there in the room. “You and Mary were ecstatic at the thought of being parents and you looked at her with _such love_ in your eyes,” Sherlock swallowed audibly, “It hit me, then, that I’d lost you. That I loved you and you were no longer mine and that I had to be happy for you and let you go.”

          “Sherlock…” John’s whisper is heartbreak and love and a thousand tender things he has no idea how to impart.

          “Don’t pity me, John.” Sherlock sounds stiff, and John is struck by how vulnerable he is being, how much he is opening himself, for _him_ , John.

          “I don’t pity you,” John answered with spirit, “I—hell, you know I’m not good at this sort of thing. But I…I just wish there was some way I could tell you what I feel, so you know it isn’t pity.” Taking a deep breath he leaned up on one elbow, bent over Sherlock and kissed him, a soft, gentle, yearning kiss that he hoped said everything he was too taciturn and awkward and new at this to say.

          It indisputably felt strange to kiss Sherlock, to kiss another man, to feel a trace of whiskers scrape his chin, and smell Sherlock’s musky skin and feel the roughened pads of his fingers on his own jaw. But the part of him that had been wanting this and dreading it in equal parts for months and _months_ is eagerly pressing him to savor it all. So he does. Sherlock is a surprisingly good kisser, and he smells fucking incredible, and oh god, but the feel of his hand slowly cupping John’s jaw, sliding down his neck, cupping the back of his head and pulling him into a deeper kiss…brilliant.

          John whispered it when their lips finally parted, with a tiny tug, as if his skin wanted to remain in contact with Sherlock’s and was reluctant to part. His praise earned him another kiss and within a few minutes he is on his back with Sherlock pressed to his chest, Sherlock’s long fingers woven through his hair, one of Sherlock’s long legs parting his. A brief feeling of panic swept John, not used to being seduced, overwhelmed, not normally the one who submitted. But he reminds himself that this is going to take some getting used to, and that he wants this (which he does, oh god he does) and so he parts his thighs to let Sherlock’s leg settle between his, and without thinking about it he grinds his groin lightly against the surprisingly muscular thigh and Sherlock breaks the kiss with a gasp.

          “You’re hard,” he says, somewhere between wonder and accusation.

          “Um, yeah?” John drops back into his pillow, “Shit, you said yourself you don’t do relationships…is this too much?”

          “John, I think I’ve made it fairly clear that I want you,” Sherlock says with his customary crispness, but trails off. “I erm, well, I thought we would have to, you know, work up to this. Let you become accustomed to being with a man.”

          John bent his knee slightly, brushed Sherlock’s groin with his leg and—ah, uh huh, definitely aroused. “Doesn’t look to me like you’re having any issues, why should I?”

          Sherlock shuddered at the teasing pass of his leg, “Stop that, I can’t think.”

          A broad grin broke over John’s face; it was a miracle…he had rendered Sherlock Holmes temporarily incapable of thought. Well, they _did_ call him Three Continents for a reason. “Why is my hard-on a surprise?”

          Closing the distance between them, Sherlock peered at him in the dim moonlight that filtered through the curtains, “Well, you aren’t gay and I rather thought we would have to work up to this.”

          John smiled, and stroked Sherlock’s curls, massaged his neck, “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought for quite a while. My body and my heart were on board; it was my head that was tangled up in confusion.” He smoothed a hand down Sherlock’s back, grasped one of those glorious, firm arse cheeks in his hand and hauled him up against his hard prick, “I’ve had quite a few wanks, thinking about you. To see if I could, you know.” He nibbled on Sherlock’s ear and smiled at the younger man’s groan.

          “You thought about me?” Sherlock moaned, rolling his hips and pressing his own erection against John’s belly.

          “Often,” John growled, and kissed him hard. He felt more in control, and he liked it. There might be a struggle for domination, but he rather thought that in this one area of their lives he could take the lead. This was born out by Sherlock shuddering and gasping in his arms,  and John realized they might be moving a bit fast—although they had known each other for seven years now—and he consciously slowed his rapid approach.

          “Too fast?”

          “I think we might be getting ahead of ourselves,” John said, breathing deeply. “Fuck, I didn’t expect we’d move so far. It’s your fault for being so sexy.”

          Even in the dark he can see Sherlock’s pleased smile, and he chuckles, running an arm down the other man’s arm, unable to _not_ touch him. “For a wanker,” he teased.

          Swooping in for a kiss, Sherlock spoke with his lips touching John’s, “I’d rather say you were the wanker. How many times did you do it and think of me?”

          “I didn’t keep a tally,” John mused, enjoying the feel of Sherlock’s hand sliding under his t-shirt and running up his belly. He resisted the urge to suck in his stomach, but just barely. “At least four, I’d say, maybe more.”

          “That’s remarkably arousing,” Sherlock breathed, stroking his hand back down his torso and hovering over the tented crotch of John’s pyjamas. “Show me how you did it.”

          Despite everything, John blushed, and blushed hard. “What?! I’m not going to wank myself in front of you!”

          Sherlock laughed, sounding young and lighthearted, “You can talk about it—you can touch me and kiss me—but you can’t show me?”

          “I haven’t masturbated in front of anyone in probably thirty years,” John said, “Why, is that something you do often?”

          “No,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “But I find myself intrigued to see you touching yourself…thinking of me.”

          _Fuck, that’s a bit hot_. John hesitated, then dragged his bottoms down to below his are cheeks, freeing his dick and laying back so he could reach awkwardly for the bedside lamp, turning it on. The wash of light is disorienting, and some of the intimacy and the naughty sense of shared desire is bleached too-white by the light. John looked at his friend, felt his face turning red. “Not exactly fair for me to be exposed like this while you’re clothed.”

          “You did see me naked in the bath, John,” Sherlock’s amusement is blindingly clear, but not aimed to wound.

          “You’re always swanning around in a sheet or those rent boy pyjamas of yours,” John rejoined with spirit, “I stay decently clothed.”

          “Be indecent for me, John.” That bass voice, rumbling so close, has his already hard flesh straining. “If it makes you feel better…”

          Sherlock flipped back the covers, pulled the drawstring on his silk pyjama bottoms and lifts his hips so he can slide them below his buttocks. His dick is like him, long and pale, but with more girth that John might have imagined—did imagine? Unable to resist, John reached out, drew two fingers along his length, saw the jerk of the beautiful—yes, he can think it—beautiful cock in front of him and flicked his eyes up to watch Sherlock’s face. Their eyes tangled, caught, and John put his right hand on Sherlock, his left on himself and with a bit of maneuvering, began to masturbate in tandem. Sherlock’s hand fluttered, came to rest on his chest and John murmured a command to kiss him, which was eagerly fulfilled.

          They sparred for a bit, tongues dueling, until John found himself unable to maintain a rhythm and pulled back. “Hold on.” He thought for a minute then rolled to reach for a bottle of lube in the bedside table and rolled back, up onto his knees. “Kneel in front of me,” he said breathlessly and Sherlock complied, hair tousled, lips red and a look on his face John has never seen before. He looks hungry, human, lit from within by what must be happiness. John wants to see that face on him more often. _Christ but I love him_ , he thinks, the idea still so startling that it catches in his chest, a flutter of emotion and fear and desire.

          They kneel on the bed, face to face, and John drizzled lube on his hand, looked at the two dicks nudging one another and doubled the amount. He reached for Sherlock but was immediately hampered when the lunatic grabbed for the hem of his shirt and tugged insistently. A bit of a scuffle and they were both shirtless. John tried to ignore the self-consciousness he felt; he had seven years and fifteen pounds on the other man, he was scarred pretty badly on his hip, a little less so on his shoulder. But when he took the time to look at Sherlock—who was bloody gorgeous like some pale marble statue of an Olympic athlete—he saw the look of sexual hunger and felt a bit better. More than a bit actually. He may possibly have preened slightly. But only slightly.

          Rubbing his hands together, he coated them in the lube and wrapped his right hand around them both, and slowly began to stroke. A shudder of pleasure ran through him, and was echoed by Sherlock, who had gripped his shoulders and was looking at him with a heavy-lidded gaze as John teased them both with slow, slow glides of his fist around their erections. It’s juvenile of him, but a tiny part of him is pleased that he is bigger than Sherlock. His hand nearly doesn’t encircle them both. He grips a little tighter, speeds up, all the while looking into those pale jade eyes.

          With his other hand, slick with lube, John reached around and took Sherlock’s arse cheek in hand, palming it and giving it an appreciate squeeze. He winked roguishly and was pleased to see him color up like a schoolgirl. The feeling of being in control has steadied him, and John realized with a bit of surprise that he never before knew it, but that control is an aphrodisiac for him. Interesting. He hauled Sherlock a bit closer and they kissed, mouths lining up quite nicely despite the fact that John is six inches shorter. In spite of the difference in their heights, he still feels dominant and he relishes watching Sherlock submit to his approach. John doesn’t want to hurt him in anyway, he doesn’t want him humiliated, but he enjoys finally being the one in the lead. Sherlock is pliant and fluid in his arms, perhaps the only time he has ever surrendered to John in their friendship.

          “I’m close,” Sherlock gasps, draping himself over John’s good shoulder and licking his neck, biting the corded muscle there, “Ah…John…!”

          “Come for me,” John whispered, perhaps the most unoriginal words ever spoken in bed, but he means it. He wants this, wants Sherlock to come undone, for _him_ , for John Watson.  He nuzzled those inky curls, grazed the shell of his ear, “You beauty,” he breathed, and let his slippery fingers ride the crevice of Sherlock’s buttocks, stroking lightly, daringly. His lover comes apart in his arms and John holds him up, taking his weight, swallowing his sobs, and comes with a drawn out shudder of his own, Sherlock’s name a choked murmur of need.

          “John,” Sherlock sounds almost dazed, and John supports him with one arm behind his back and tumbles him gently to the bed, coming down to lie next to him. “Sleep,” he told him soothingly, pulling the covers over them. “Sleep with me.”

          It had been, John reflected hours later, after a very solid night of sleep, so weird and wonderful and daunting and dear to have taken that step and seen Sherlock’s willingness to be so open, to be the one to make him lose control. Perhaps it was too much too fast, but he didn’t regret it. Not a bit, he reflected with amusement, adjusting his morning erection. He had slept so deeply and so well that he hadn’t bothered to clean either of them of the ejaculate that had splattered their bellies and arms. He’d merely wiped at it with a corner of the sheet and gone to sleep with his pants and pyjamas only partially pulled up.

          Sherlock, snoring softly, was still asleep next to him, miracle of miracles, and John ignored his erection to roll onto his side and study him. The sheets rode low on his side, and he was rolled away from John, that long white back to him. John reached to lay a hand on his sleep warmed flesh and stopped cold at the sight of the scars that criss-crossed the exposed skin. Jesus. It looked like Sherlock had been flogged. There were long, shallow pinkish-white stripes punctuated by deeper, pinker knots of scar tissue. His fingers shook as he rested a hand lightly on his back, acid rising in his throat. How had he not seen…was this why he had stopped wearing just a sheet? John had thought it was for Rosie’s benefit, but now that he thought about it, he realized he hadn’t seen Sherlock without a shirt or a dressing gown since his return.

          Sliding over in the bed, he laid his arm lightly over Sherlock’s lean waist, pressed his lips to the worst of the scars. Tenderness welled in him, and John wished he were a bigger man, so he could cradle Sherlock to him, enfold him in his arms, protect him. Laughable, really, Sherlock Holmes didn’t need to be coddled.

          “Yes I do, John,” Sherlock said in a low voice, reading his mind once more, “I need you, John, in so many ways.”

          John pressed against him, pulled the younger man flush to his chest, and hitched up the bed so he could hook his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder and press his cheek to Sherlock’s. He wasn’t normally so affectionate, not much of a cuddler, really, although Rosie had changed that. But he was touched by Sherlock’s soft tone, so different from his usual arrogance, and the bed was so nice and warm and he felt all …tender. “I’m beyond sorry I never asked if you suffered during your time away,” he said huskily, “I was so full of my own pain and rage and indignation that I didn’t stop to think that maybe it cost you something as well.”

          “It was all worth it,” Sherlock said, turning his head and rubbing his cheek against John’s, as if he were a big affectionate cat. “It kept you safe. You and Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

          John was silent for a long time, then finally spoke, “Just remember, your life is precious to us too. Don’t play about with it.” He kissed Sherlock’s ear roughly and gave him a squeeze.

          Sherlock purred with satisfaction, “My Jawn.”


End file.
